


Without You

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They speak of friends; of those still living and those long lost, and Gimli learns an important thing about the hobbit he has only known in stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

He leaned out over the balcony in order to get a better look at the stonework that had gone into the carving of the balustrades on which he was leaning. It was good work, intricate work, and Gimli was impressed. Someone cared a great deal about it. Someone had loved it, once upon a time. He ran a finger over some of the finer detail, not noticing he was no longer alone until he heard a voice behind him.

“Good morning, Master Dwarf.”

The voice was not like those of the elves, musical yet commanding. It was warm and friendly, and Gimli pulled himself back, turning quickly to see his companion. It was not a face he knew but it was quite clear who this was. He had never met the hobbit so beloved by his kinsmen, never met any hobbit actually, but this little person no bigger than a child who looked as old as Gimli himself could be no other.

“Master Baggins,” he said, “I had hoped to meet you at last. Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service.”

He dropped a short bow and the hobbit laughed, putting a hand on his arm.

“No need for such things, Master Gimli, no need. I have been acquainted with dwarvenkind for long enough that I know we shall be friends.”

Gimli had never suspected that he would dislike the hobbit but he felt himself warming to him even more quickly than he’d imagined. Bilbo moved to stand next to him, looking out over the quiet dawn of an early morning in Rivendell. Few people were abroad at this time; Gimli had seen Lord Elrond on his way to the young hobbit’s sickbed, and several other elves were wandering around further down the valley, but most was still. There had been a great feast to mark the coming of the envoys the previous evening and the elves had lingered long in the chamber, singing and playing their instruments. Now, perhaps, they were resting.

“Might you join me in my chambers?” Bilbo asked after a short while, “I am not so strong on my feet as I once was and I feel we have much to speak of.”

“Gladly,” Gimli nodded, “Perhaps you would care for more news from the mountain?”

He offered the hobbit his arm, noticing that he seemed to be hobbling, and together they walked slowly to Bilbo’s chambers. He had a small table, made to his size, and three carved matching chairs.

“Take a seat, my dear Gimli, take a seat,” Bilbo smiled, opening a small cupboard mounted on the wall and taking out some bread, cheese and a small jug of wine, “Lord Elrond allows me a small pantry, as fond as I am of eating in comparison to my elven brethren. Please join me in a small pre-breakfast snack.”

They ate a little in comfortable silence, the view from this balcony even more spectacular than the one further down. Clearly this hobbit was held in as high a regard amongst the elves as he was back at home. Strange, that one so unassuming could mean so much to so many different peoples. 

“Your father has told me much of your news already,” Bilbo said eventually, his blue eyes bright in his old face, “But perhaps you have more. How are my friends? How is dear Bofur?”

Gimli chuckled.

“I have rarely heard Bofur referred to with such an endearment before. Most agree he is an irritant to all except the children for whom he carves his toys.”

“Do you agree, Master Gimli?”

Those warm eyes had a hint of a challenge in them and Gimli dropped his own in response.

“He gets on so well with the dwarvlings because he is one of them at heart. I cannot hold much against such a one as him.”

“Good. You understand such things,” Bilbo smiled contemplatively, drawing out his words, “There is more to Bofur than meets the eye. Rarely have I known one so welcoming amongst your own kind, pardon the rest. I felt him my friend long before many of the others on that trip.”

“That does not come as a surprise to me,” Gimli said, breaking off a crust of bread in contemplation, “Bofur was the least changed after your quest. He had always been a kind one. As soon as he could make his toys he was always providing the younger dwarves with some new token. That has not changed since the move to Erebor.”

“And the others? Were they much changed to how you remembered them?”

“Some,” Gimli said slowly, thinking hard on ancient memories, “Balin went of course on his own quest to Moria and took my uncle with him, and Ori. My father said he did not think Balin wished to stay in Erebor, not without Thorin on the throne. He was surprised he stayed as long as he did.”

“Have you heard from them?”

“Not recently,” Gimli frowned, biting his bottom lip, “And some of us have begun to worry about them. Ori used to send a message as often as he could.”

“Perhaps they are occupied,” Bilbo said gently, patting Gimli’s hand where it lay on the table, “I would not worry yet, Master Dwarf. Balin is a strong one, and your uncle too.”

“Aye,” Gimli murmured, and perhaps Bilbo saw something on his face because he cleared his throat and changed the subject as smoothly as he could.  
“How is Dwalin? He was the first of your kind that I ever met, you know.”

“Dwalin is restless. I think he would have followed his brother to Moria had the king not had need of him, but now he paces. My mother says he paces as though one day he might walk far enough that he is with Thorin again. They were the closest of friends, that I remember, and I do not think he has ever forgiven himself for what happened.”

“I suppose he has not,” Bilbo said sadly, “There was a moment when I did not think any of them would ever be able to stand again, when they heard the news of Thorin’s death-”

He paused and ran a hand through his hair, “Forgive me. We do not want to speak of such sad things.”

“Actually, Master Bilbo, I would, if you do not mind so much. My father rarely speaks of it. You were there when Thorin was lost?”

“Aye, I was,” Bilbo murmured, moving with sudden speed towards his pipe and tobacco, stashed in the little cabinet besides his bed. He filled the pipe silently and offered Gimli the pouch, which he took keenly. Hobbit pipeweed was renowned and he would not turn down such an offer.

“Thorin called for me, to make peace. He felt I had betrayed him and I suppose in a way I had, although in the end it was for the best.” 

“The Arkenstone. I have heard this part. How was his death?”

“A good one, a death that befitted a king,” Bilbo mused, “Although I think by then he was ready. Fili and Kili –”

Gimli looked away at the mention of the young princes and Bilbo watched him curiously. Of course…the age was right. How careless of him.

“Were they friends of yours, Gimli? Fili and Kili?”

“Aye they were,” the dwarf answered, and Bilbo caught again that glint of sadness in his eyes, “I still think of them sometimes. We were young together. They were my playmates, cousins close enough that I could practically call them brothers. Dwalin taught Kili and I to fight at the same time, he was so close in age to me, and Fili was allowed to help him, sparring with us until we were good enough to try our luck with Dwalin himself. I was just a few years too young to be able to go to Erebor, however much I begged my father. When I heard that-”

He paused and cleared his throat, “When I heard that they had died, I wished that night it had been me instead. At least then one of them would have sat the throne. They would have been the very best of kings, even Kili, though he never believed he would have to worry about such things.”

Bilbo nodded sympathetically and patted Gimli’s hand again. 

“They often talked of home, you know, of the friends they had left behind. I do not think they stopped thinking of you, of all of you left behind, for one moment of the journey.”

“That is good news, Master Bilbo, good news,” Gimli said, lifting a hand and running it quickly over his face, “They say old they never truly leave us, not if we remember them. I sometimes feel Fili besides me, telling me to keep my axe up, or Kili laughing at some jest before I understand it for myself.”

“That is a lovely saying, Master Gimli,” Bilbo smiled, “And I understand. As I have gotten older I find myself thinking more and more on old friends. You dwarves have a legend, do you not, that the great kings wait for their time to come once more and take their seats?”

“Aye we do but tis only that, a legend. I know not what happens after we die any better than any other dwarf.”

“I shall let you in on a secret, dear Gimli. Hobbits do not know any better but I have a philosophy I have come to believe in for myself and you are welcome to share it if you wish, for who is to say that one day we shall not see our friends again? Somewhere they wait for us, just out of reach, waiting for our time to be right, and we will all be young together once more.”

Bilbo looked away as he spoke, down into the valley where the two youngest hobbits had suddenly appeared and were playing with an elven bow and arrow they had obviously acquired from somewhere they should not have been looking.

“Those boys,” Bilbo laughed softly, “There is another truth I have come to realise in the past few years, that sometimes it lessens the hurt a little to surround yourself with people who remind you of those who have left us.”

The shorter hobbit, the one called Pippin, was aiming the weapon with exaggerated care at a crude target they had set up against a tree; the other one, Merry, held his arm steady and patted him on the shoulder when he almost hit the edge of the target, and suddenly Gimli knew what Bilbo was talking about.

“My father was not exaggerating your prowess with words, Master Hobbit,” Gimli said thickly, “He did not tell me you were a poet as well.”

“I’m not a poet, Master Gimli,” Bilbo leaned back in his chair and took another pull on his pipe, “I just have had time to reconcile with myself that I will not have to be without them forever.”


End file.
